The Book of Iluros
Introduction These short stories are a window into the lives of the people of Orkfia and the events of their world. It is set in an age when new races are uncovered and introduced into the world, when old races are brooding, forgotten and planning something unknown and mysterious. New magic and wisdom brings new possibilities for all, including an end to some things that had always been. Prologue: The Orkfic Series Clouds swirled in the skies, black as the swarms of birds flying about in it and crackling with ominous power. Together they blocked the light of the Sun and celestial bodies. Divine energy pulsed through Ancero as he willed lightning to form. Arcing from the firmanent, silver-white bolts surged into the attacking forces, incinerating the ravens and rendering their burnt forms into a fleshy hail that rained down upon the helmets and upraised shields of his Istari phalanx. No god dared to stay the destruction of this spell, no mystic possessed enough knowledge to counter it. His magic came from a higher authority. Black feathers and bloody forms littered all of the ground around, and more greasy ravens fell from the wrath of the heavens. Swift as they were, fleeing from Ancero’s retribution, he had still more power to unleash. Pursuing them with arcane sight, his storm heckled their forces for miles until but a remnant remained. And then they were gone, safe within their borders and protected by their brutal gods, as such they called them. At least, until the next time. He did not know who their leader was, but they were clearly acting on behalf of the Empire, so foolish in its futile plays of power and senseless violence. Sighing, he surveyed the battlefield for the fallen. Ancero was still getting used to his new incarnation, one which he had never taken before. The Light Elves came from the realms of the gods, beyond the lands of Orkfia. For ages they had been content to watch the events of the world without interfering directly. It had only been when the demons had been released from their infernal prison that they chose to come into the physical existence. Though they were not entirely of this world still; their bodies unearthly and ethereal, it was enough to make them mortal, as the mauled and defiled bodies of the dead indicated. Even with every wizard under his command an asset, Ancero knew that you could only go so many, many lifetimes without the scratched faces and pecked out eyes all blending together and becoming an expected part of life. And if it was his fault for not being prepared, no one seemed to blame him. They never did, so in awe of his power. It was up to himself, alone in this world. The tribes of these new elves were few in number. Still, the Elders from beyond had instilled in them ancient wisdom and lore, and their magic was strong. When he had died, from the age before, he had taken his one opportunity to try something new – and yet ancient. The cycle of death and rebirth had become stale. He had seen the side of every story, played the role of every character, remade himself time and time again endlessly. Alliances formed and disbanded, empires rose and fell. It had very much surprised him that there had been something he didn’t already know, and that was enough to sustain him. “Order an expedition,” He ordered one of his bureaucrats; “I know we are close to it.” The elf frowned at his cryptic words. Of course, they wouldn’t know. They never kept their memories over the ages, even these elves could not once they entered the world of Orkfia. But he would uncover the Library of Arathos. Much would be illumined by its lore. He had no time to waste, as he had so many times before. It was the first step, a key to unraveling the enigma of the Comet. “As you command, Your Grace.” The radiant bureaucrat hurried off to convey the order. There would barely be enough time to bury the dead before the Istari would be on the march. Entering the walls of his grand city, Ancero walked to the Academy district, observing the damages done to the buildings by the attack. Repairs were already on the way. The shining white walls of the towers came into view, colonnaded with alabaster pillars and set with reliefs of marble and silver. He passed through the outer cloister, allowing himself to relax. Sagely mystics gazed upon him serenely, though he knew how they really felt and did not care. The tall lattice doorways were laid open before him. Stairways spiraled upwards to the vaulted altars and airy balconies high above the rest of the city or the canopy of the forest. “There is a message,” A young elf mystic bowed as he approached Ancero; “The Allies have called for a meeting in the World of Dreams tonight.” Nodding silently, Ancero made his way to his Sanctum. Prestige was not everything; he had to climb the flight of stairs all the way to the top. Pristine, the Sanctum was warded by various magics that allowed no one but himself to enter. The walls were bare, though in a time before he would have lined them with books to humor himself. He no longer needed such props. Sitting, he waited meditatively to enter the World of Dreams. It was a sort of ritual, to expand his mind beyond his body to find the astral realm. Enveloped in twilight and mist, it was here that he communicated with his allies from afar. He was not the first arrival. The translucent, incorporeal forms of Hairen and Svetia, a dark elf and an eagle, respectively, were huddled in counsel. “Greetings,” Ancero said stoically. “So, you are here now,” Hairen said, his voice an odd resonance in this place. Svetia watched him quietly, her eagle eyes both deep and sharply intent. “Who has called us here?” Ancero asked, vexed by the situation. “It is Blodir, he claims to have a plan,” Svetia answered, with the same strange echo. Ancero’s frown remained. Blodir always was reckless, and had brought much ruin to his followers and allies. Not everyone learned from the past. “I do have a plan,” A voice hummed from all around the dusky ethereal mist. Blodir’s current form was that of a man in priestly robes. Emblazoned on the white cloth was a golden sunburst – the mark of the pious Templars. Ancero rolled his eyes and said nothing. This should be good. “Long have the four of us defended our alliance from the ravages of the other mages. Only we can truly understand the significance of what I have to say,” The templar said sanctimoniously. It was not exactly true, but Blodir had a flair for hyperbole. Ancero wondered what was going on in the physical realm. Surely it would be of more interest than airy rhetoric. “The source of our power and destruction has long been the Comet, an instrument of Destruction. We had thought it was our only way to charge the power of the Guildstones, but we were wrong. The Light Elves have brought with them a new source of power into this world: the magic of Creation. With it we can dispel the Time Spell and destroy the Comet. The endless ages will be no more.” Insane, Ancero thought at first. “It’s been tried before,” Hairen spoke distantly; “And it was a disaster that brought misery and sorrow for all.” “Of course,” Blodir responded dismissively; “Because we tried to fight fire with fire. Destruction can only bring about destruction. Our weapon shall be wrought of Creation, and through it we will Preserve Orkfia, once and for all.” “You seem quite eager to die, Blodir,” Svetia said quietly. “Maybe, but there isn’t much of a point in living anymore,” Blodir said harshly; “Time repeats itself. There is never any change. This is our opportunity to remake the world. I am going to take it, with or without your help.” “I don’t believe it,” Ancero spoke, aghast; “For once, Blodir is actually right about something. Stunning.” “Well, if you think so…” Svetia murmured thoughtfully. “Then it is agreed,” Hairen concluded; “What exactly is your plan?” “I’m glad you asked,” Blodir said with a triumphant grin; “First, we must learn to tap into this new source of magic. Ancero here should have a head start. Then we’ll have to wait until the end of this age to put our strategem into motion…” The four talked of contingencies and elaborations, beyond space and time in the eventide realm. By the time Ancero returned, his body was tired and the sun was about to rise. He never got any sleep. Only a little while longer, and then an eternal rest… The Balrog As the ethereal conclave of mages plotted in the World of Dreams, the storm unleashed the entirety of its wrath upon the land. Once begun by magic, it raged on its own, an entity of independent will and power. Gales of wind swirled shrilly over weathered masonry and battlements, the rising energy in the air reaching its climax high in the atmosphere beyond where the winged races flew. Dark, furious clouds roiled and sputtered gouts of lightning and peals of thunder. It worked its way into a keening blizzard, coating the landscape of the forests of the North in white. Many a child hid his face in his mother’s skirts in the face of the monstrosity, itself started only hours before as Ancero’s retaliation. The hills themselves were rended by the wrath of the winds. And then, just as quickly as it had formed, the storm vanished. The world was once again eerily calm: the trees were unbroken, the land dry and uncovered by snow or mangled bodies. It was as if it never were, but in the memory of those that lived it. With each use of magic, the fabric of existence itself shuddered. Destruction poured through the cracks of the Void, a hungry miasma that devoured reality itself. Looming in the wind-tossed firmament, the Comet approached the end of its procession; within that blazing rock the Sleeping God waited. A nameless and primordial terror, the deity had been imprisoned for far too long. But soon It would be unleashed. All over the world of Orkfia below, ignorant mages tapped into Its dark ocean of power. Bits of rock crumbled and burned away. Threads of Time strained as the ancient spell once again neared its completion. Little by little, all of Creation threatened to shatter under the pressure. Soon this age would end. It would be the ending of all ages to It, the dark God of Destruction. Deep in the bowels of the earth crowned by the impassable Iron Mountains, an army waited in the darkness. Most were goblins, small of stature and of courage. The bigger breed who ruled the slave horde, the orks, were also among them in chains. As were the hulking ogres and towering trolls. These beasts all together were made captives here. All stood waiting before the precipice, not daring to gaze down into the abyssal darkness. Infernal heat fumed from the stygian depths to the stony roof of the cavern, carrying with it the smell of brimstone and death. All were silent, save for the occasional whimpering of a child accompanied by the brutish thud of the mother to quiet the brat. Opposite to the gathering of greenskins, a massive creature stood. The demon was a creature not quite of the world, its shadowy form shifting and flickering as flame. The only permanent feature to it was the face: a skull-like visage topped with curling horns and eyes that burned like awls. All the while it chanted a spell in a guttural tongue not unlike what the orks themselves spoke. In truth it was the origin of such. Then, it spoke. “Forward,” It intoned, its voice like a chorus of cacophonous screams, each calling for blood, booming throughout the cavern. In it was a malice beyond the comprehension of the greenskins. Sure, they knew of bloodlust and the chaos of battle and reveled in slaughter. But this was a death much darker. The will of the creature crashed down upon their simple minds like a burning avalanche. To their horror, their limbs stepped forward. The misshapen masses hobbled and limped stiffly, their eyes wide in terror as the first wave stepped over the edge. It was then that the screaming began. Their bodies flailed helplessly for a moment before being consumed by the blackness of the chasm. Their shrieks and wails echoed above them. And then, a dreadful silence. There was no sickening crunch as they came to the end of their fall. It was as if they had ceased to exist altogether. The rest quivered in fear. Then, the second wave spilled over much like the first. Again and again, until each living soul was extinguished. Pooled in the shadowy recesses were the remains of the victims. The fleshy bodies themselves were incinerated by the magma that rose to the surface. It was their souls in fact that stirred just above like a blanket of smoke. It was now vast and terrible, and directed towards one purpose. The cabal of heretics approached the collossal demon with some trepidation. Though they lived no longer, this creature had the power to show them an even more terrible death than their first. Prostrating themselves before the hellish entity, they awaited its commands. “Bring more living souls,” The voices roared mercilessly. The brittle bones and dessicated skin of the cultists creaked dryly as they scurried away, fearful to be the last one out of the vaulted chamber. Yes, soon. The Comet would be sundered. All would fall under the power of Destruction. Ancero felt an unearthly chill as the ripples of the spell traveled all the way to his northern kingdom. They were but a whisper now, distant in space and time, but full of anguish and suffering. Some foul deed had come to pass in the night, far to the West. The wicked forces of the Enemy were gathering their strength, as sure as the hair on his neck stood tall. Around him, the light elves gazed with worry towards the direction of the setting sun. They could feel it too, and it made them even more uneasy. He made something approaching a calming gesture, though in truth he knew little of their ways. Arathos was a distant memory in his mind, clouded by his last death as it always was. He could vaguely recall it lay even farther north, beyond the White Mountains on the rocky coast of the Winter Sea. The Library there contained many ancient secrets, and he had always searched in vain for an answer. Invariably, it would be too late by the time he realized his course of inquiry was a dead end, and the Age would end. Not this time. The light elves had told him somewhat of the force of Creation as they knew it. It had embodied itself in the souls of Men, and entrusted to them the fate of Orkfia. But nevertheless the gods had sent these elves to aid their cause. It seemed that putting faith into mankind had proved an error in their judgment. He knew now that Creation and Destruction turned in opposition to one another, bound at the center by Preservation which maintained the balance between the two. The Seal of Preservation had been the barrier that prevented each from directly interfering in the affairs of Orkfia, but somehow it had broken long ago, when the troubles began. This had been the innate power of the elves, the remnants of its power fading away after the passing of each age. But now, these new elves stood only for Creation. The secret to its power was far different than what he had become accustomed to during his many lives drinking from the Comet. It as altogether a different experience. The divine mystery swam just above the unclaimed outlands of his mind, whispering gently of wisdom and power. Yet it would melt away into nothingness as he bore it his attention. Force and domination held no sway over Creation, unlike the power of its counterpoint. He would share his knowledge with his allies. Perhaps if enough of them learned it would be enough to save them. Already there was too little time. Darkwood In the east, a shadow fell over the moons of Orkfia. The radiant visage of Deam at last succumbed to the cover, albeit timidly illumined the night overcast, a corona of ill omens. Yet despite the heavy clouds filled to the brim with spite and rain, the shining comet could not be denied from the eyes of those that looked to the heavens. It pierced through the shroud as if to mock it, the reminder of its approach never dulled for a moment. No one could be permitted to forget its presence. Hairen pulled his hood farther up over his head, hiding his features. The stirring lights of the firmament cast haunting shadows beneath the canopy of the Darkwood. The others gathered were likewise cloaked, their faces hidden. These were the guildmasters, lords among the thieves in his lands. He could not let his identity be known here. Nor they to him. Most among the dark elves thought their existence to be a mere story. The priestesses warned to be wary when crossing the path of a thief. Be ever wary to never let your eyes leave them, lest they plant a knife in your back. That was the saying. The elfchilds were bidden to not wander too far in the night, lest the thieves come for them. Few knew just to what extent the thieves were spread, hiding and watching. It suited Hairen just fine. They were useful, though he did not trust them. None could know of these secret meetings, for they belied the true power held over these lands. It was a mystery wrapped in enigma, painted with deception. Hairen was High King of these lands. He was not supposed to know about the guildmasters, indeed in these conclaves they plotted openly to manipulate him for their own ends. Nevertheless he had infiltrated their order, and attended every meeting that he could. Their hand was open before him. It had been like this for many Ages, and had become a simple game for him. Thieves didn’t know mages also dealt in illusions and trickery. “Reports account that our ‘righteous cousins’ are expanding into the north,” One of the robed figures began, his voice muffled; “It seems they are seeking the Library of Arathos.” The others nodded quietly. There was no first among equals here, no one could be permitted the distinction of being made leader. Thus the guildmasters plotted behind one another’s back, always seeking to gain a secret advantage. At least one person had been brutally tortured to yield the information that had just now been spoken. Who knew how many messangers it went through before at first coming to the ear of the speaker? They fed on one another as well. “Naturally scouts have been deployed to secure the information for ourselves,” Another broke in. The first speaker stirred, the slightest hint of discomfort showing in his movements. A loose string had disheveled his plan. It was clear as if he had spoken it aloud. Many would suffer in punishment of that grievous error. “What are those white wizards seeking?” A third inquired, the distaste on her voice. There was no doubt she was a priestess underneath that hood. The Maidens of Ciorin held no love for these newcomers, the light elves. They claimed to come from the realm of the gods, but recognized none that were worshiped by these people. Hairen smiled in secret, knowing the truth of the matter. They were one in the same, their names warped by the passing of Ages. None now called them by what they were known when they walked the lands of Orkfia, in the beginning. There was a silence. Perhaps no one knew the answer to that question, but it was more likely that they merely thought it too important to share. Hairen dispelled their ambitions. “They are seeking a lost source of power,” He explained, just as he had heard from Ancero; “Drawn from something else entirely than the Comet.” A few were unable to contain their surprise, expressed as discreetly as it was in a quiet gasp. So, he knew a great bit more than any of they. Good. The sooner it would change the ways of the dark elves. “What is this source of power?” One figure demanded, angry at not having been the first to know of it. “It is Creation, the opposer to Destruction,” Hairen answered; “With it they shall restore the shattered force of Preservation, and return the world to peace.” Many began to speak at once. It had always been the case that the Comet was the source of all mystical power. And through it, destruction and war surged, ravaging the lands. As the guildmasters rightly ascertained, a new source of power would put the thieves to a disadvantage, and furthering such goals as peace would surely clip their own aims. “We should destroy it,” One concluded finally. It was really quite simple. As the world unraveled before the power of Destruction, the thieves profited on the decay. So they fed the chaos, tending it like a weak flame until it roared into calamity. All for gold and power. They were unable to see the lasting consequences that their actions held for them, the ruin that awaited their short-sighted greed. Hairen would use it to crush them. “I agree,” He lied smoothly. All was going exactly according to his plan. Category:The Books of Orkfia